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NAY, LADY, ASK ME NOT TO DWELL.
BY NATHANIEL GREENE.
Nay, lady, ask me not to dwell
Upon the theme you gave;
I could but hope to save
In earlier and in happier days,
When life was bright and new,
And felt and wrote like you.
Alas, it is a saddening thought
That life's delightful spring,
So soon should spread its wing-
But thus it is ;-and memory
The Indian summer of the soul,
That kindly comes again-
MY FATHER DIED ERE I COULD TELL.
BY SUMNER L. FAIRFIELD.
My father died ere I could tell
The love my young heart felt for him: My sister like a blossom fell ;
Her cheek grew cold, her blue eye dim,
When she was dearest unto me;
Were beautiful as Araby.
And, one by one, the friends of youth
Departed to the land of dreams : And soon I felt that friends, in sooth,
Were few as flowers by mountain streams; And solitude came o'er me then,
And early I was taught to treasure Lone thoughts in glimmering wood and glen;
Now they are mine in utmost measure.
But boyhood's sorrows, though they leave
Their shadows on the spirit's dial, Cannot by their deep spell bereave
They herald but a darker trial; And such 'tis mine e'en now to bear
In the sweet radiance of thine eye, And 'tis the wildness of despair
To paint vain love that cannot die.
Yet thus it must be- like the flower,
That sheds amid the dusky night The
rays it drank at midday hour, My spirit pours abroad its light, When all the beauty and the bloom,
The blessedness of love hath gone, And left the darkness of the tomb,
Upon the glory of its throne.
The hour hath comemit cannot part
Deterring pride—one hurried deed Hath fixed its seal upon my heart,
And ever it must throb and bleed, Till life, and love, and anguish o'er,
The spirit soars to its first birth, And meets on heaven's own peaceful shore
The heart it loved too well on earth.
BY WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON.
“I LOVE thee, Fanny Willoughby,
And that's the why, ye see,
And cannot let thee be;
And O! you may depend on't,
And that will be the end on't.
“I love thy form, I worship it,
To me it always seems As if it were the counterfeit
Of some I've seen in dreams;
An angel by my side,
You will not be my bride.
“I love the golden locks that glow
About that brow of thine;
But now, they are divine;
The finest under heaven; They're like the bolted clouds, that flush
The sky of summer's even.
“I love thy clear and hazel eye
They say the blue is fairer; And I confess that formerly
I thought the blue the rarer; But when I saw thine eye so clear,
Though perfectly at rest, I did kneel down, and I did swear
The hazel was the best.
“I love thy hand so pale and soft,
The which, in days ‘lang syne,' Ye, innocent as trusting, oft
Would softly clasp in mine; I thought it sure was chiseled out
Of marble by the geniuses, The which the poets rant about,
The virgins and the Venuses.
“I love the sounds that from thy lip
Gush holily and free,
And prattle to the sea;
To hearts by sorrow riven,
That music comes from heaven.
“Now listen, Fanny Willoughby,
To what I cannot keep, My days ye rob of jollity,
My nights ye rob of sleep;